


Beyond Counting Sheep

by still_lycoris



Category: X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom
Genre: Accidental overdose, Depression, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2015-12-29
Packaged: 2018-05-10 05:38:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5572951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/still_lycoris/pseuds/still_lycoris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All Charles wants to do is sleep but that's not so easy any more ...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beyond Counting Sheep

Charles didn't mean it.

He just wanted to _sleep_. That was all. He couldn't remember the last time he’d had an uninterrupted night, couldn't remember when his dreams hadn't been shattered by cries and sobs and other people's never-ending pain. He couldn't stand it. He couldn't bear it. He just wanted to _sleep_.

He'd tried alcohol, lots of it. He’d tried pills too, more than once before. Both of them had a similar effect; leaving him trapped in nightmares about agony and pain and despair. Hadn't there been more once? Hadn't people felt something else, anything else? He was sure it had been better once, that he'd felt people's joy too but it felt so long ago. A lifetime ago. Now, everything was so … hopeless. Just pain and despair and how was Charles supposed to cope with it? How was he supposed to _live?_

If alcohol hadn't worked and pills hadn't worked, maybe a combination? Maybe mixing them, maybe taking just enough of both … it wouldn't matter if he slept late after all. There was nothing to wake up for. No students. No hope.

He'd drunk quite a bit before he started the pills. His fingers felt numb. He wondered vaguely how many would help him sleep. How many would keep the dreams away. He didn't even want good dreams any more. He wanted to dream of nothing, of beautiful, blissful dark …

At some point, darkness came. He wasn't really sure when. He was swimming in it but it wasn't as comforting as he hoped. Something was wrong, something indefinable. It wasn't peaceful, it was suffocating, it wasn't pleasant, it was almost as bad, a dark, terrible thing …

“Charles? _Charles?!_ ”

Someone was shouting. There was pain. He didn't want there to be pain, he'd wanted to avoid that, why was there pain? Why was someone shaking him like that?

_Oh God, oh no, please, please, please, no, don't be dead, please, I can't, I can't, I can't ..._

More pain in his mind, the pain of misery and despair and distress. He wanted to get away from it but he couldn't. He felt his body too, or rather the half of it that he could feel now. Someone was shoving fingers into his throat and he gagged, doubling over, his stomach revolting. He vomited, gasping for breath, trying to squirm away from whoever was holding him without really knowing why.

“Charles, it’s me, I’ve got you, it’s all right, it’ll all be all right, Charles … ”

It was Hank. The thoughts he was thinking didn’t match his words at all; they were a swirl of panic and fear and his hands were trembling as he smoothed Charles’s hair back from his face. Charles tried to get a grip on the panic, tried to work out what had happened, why he felt so terrible and why Hank was so scared and crying. It was difficult to do. His head was spinning too much. He twisted round and was sick again, his body jerking.

He spent what seemed like hours curled up half-on Hank’s lap, either being sick or trying to recover from it. Hank sat with him, arm around his shoulders, stroking his hair and telling him it would be fine over and over again. Gradually, his mind calmed, became almost lulling with its reassurances but Charles could feel the fear that surged beneath, a black sort of terror that Charles was all-too familiar with.

“I wasn’t trying to kill myself,” he said and then, because Hank’s disbelief was clear. “I wasn’t! I just wanted to sleep. I can’t ever sleep any more. I’m so tired, Hank.”

“Why didn’t you tell me? I’d have helped you!”

And how could Charles tell him that he didn’t believe that there was any help any longer? How could he say that he was sure there was nothing but pain when his back was still wet from Hank’s tears? He reached up and touched Hank’s wet face and Hank shied away, obviously as ashamed of his tears as he was about so much of himself.

“I’m sorry, Hank.”

“I’ll help you,” Hank said, his voice shaking slightly. “Charles, all you have to do is ask and I’ll just … I’ll find some way, I promise. It doesn’t have to be like this.”

“Help me then,” Charles said and tried to smile. “I know you will if you can, Hank. Believe me, I never doubted you”

Hank hugged him tightly, pressing his face into Charles’s shoulder. Charles hugged him back and wondered about shedding tears himself. Would it help to cry in Hank’s supportive arms?

No. He’d already done his crying. There were no more tears, now. Not for him.

“Come on,” Hank whispered. “Let’s get you up. You’ll feel better after that.”

Charles nodded and gripped Hank’s shoulders to make it easier for Hank to lift him. Hank had never let him down. He could try and focus on that for a while. It might help. It might not. Even Hank couldn’t do everything. And Charles didn’t know how much longer he could go on.

But thinking about Hank’s desperate tears falling on his back would give him the strength to keep him fighting a little longer yet.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for 12dayschristmas


End file.
